Morals of a Quiet Monster
by Hawksword0
Summary: Alayzard, for those born of it, can be a dangerous place, yet it is always home. For the weak, everyday is a struggle to survive. The scars born from struggles last throughout the person's life. Or, even beyond Alayzard. OC centric.


**A/N: Hello! I was browsing FanFiction the other night, and much to my surprise, there wasn't a single story for Aesthetica of a Rogue Hero. So, I took it upon myself to write one. Please leave advice, criticism, and all the other little bits of the internet. Enjoy.**

"Sir, we have a problem!"  
Instantly, all of the heads in throne room whipped to the messenger.  
Atop the mighty stone chair that appeared to predated life itself, a young man stroked the pet at his side. His face, harsh, seemed to hold the light hostage. His voice demanded authority with iron and blood as he spoke. "What is so important that you interrupt my meal?"  
He rose as the words came out, the servers unable to decide whether they should retreat, or stay to please the master. The young runner had no choice, shrinking as the castle lord marched toward him.  
His eyes held a soulless glint as he stood before the boy, demanding, "What almighty calamity has you brave enough to anger me?"  
The reply unsettled him. "The Black Knight is approaching."

Striding across the field, a figure moved forward with determination. Far away, at the edge of sight, lay the battalion. The men, all veterans wearing protective leather, held their blades shakily. These were men who had slaughter monster and man without thought. The newest recruit was befuddled.  
"Why are you men acting like farm hands brandishing a pitchfork before an army? It's one man for damnation!"  
The commander looked at the girl, long brown hair covering a face decorated by scars like a demented child's drawing. Appraising her with his single good eye, the bearded warrior asked, "Do you see the man approaching?"  
The girl squinted in response, peering at the horizon. "Yes, so he's wearing a full set of plate. Every nobleman whose fought has worn the same."  
Shaking his head, the captain asked, "Notice anything special?"  
Nothing but a shaking of the head, before she gasped, drawing back. "It's black as the heart of a demon."  
All the soldiers visibly flinched at this minor detail, one hurrying to question, "Have you not heard of the Black Knight, a man who only is viewed by the heartless eye that appear from the inky black holes, the only part of his body showing! Damnation is right girl. That's what this man is."  
Turning to the now close figure, the grizzled leader sighed. He asked, "Men, what do you wish to do? Should we run, or shall we face this legend?"  
The men were quiet. The commander honestly thought they would choose to run. One stepped forward. He was younger man, several cuts gracing his armor "I shall not run. If I am to die, then let my death prove my honor."  
Satisfied by the answer, their leader spoke with authority, "Let us show him that Lord Feron's warriors aren't scared children. Girl," the armored finger angrily jabbed at the nearby female, "get beside me. Let's see if your bravery is as big as your mouth."  
Morale rising, the men's shaking reduced considerably. The figure stopped a mere twenty paces away. He hesitated for a split second, then continued his pace.  
With a roar, they charged, fifty men strong.  
The blade seemed to leap from scabbard to armored hand. A shield, the same midnight color as the myth, guarded his left side as the assault began. Moments in, blood gushed from the throat, the soldier gurgling before collapsing with a thud.  
The girl watched as her comrade was dispatched with cold efficiency. She followed behind the fresh slaughter, her blade the first to dare attack the man. His shield jumped up, parrying her strike only to return the favor. The slam threw her back, belying his unnatural strength.  
As she struggled to get up, she watched as more descended, a vengeful swarm. The shield revealed to be a weapon just as deadly as the blade, sending men sprawling. Ground was deadly, the same shield being forced through them. And where the large metal plate was not, the sword was. The straight blade was sharp on one side, but that was all the monster needed. It shredded the leather like it was silk, shearing through the men just as easy.  
The Black Knight needed neither though. One man's charge ended with him barreling over the paldrons. The frightened state lasted for a moment, before the ebony boot smashed his skull.  
Fearful, the girl lifted her hands, one supporting the other. A circle, blood-red, sprung into existence. The nearby warrior suddenly understood why the girl was under his command. Her cockiness was also suddenly understandable, as mages were deadly opponents. They rarely faced an opponent outside another Mage that gave them trouble.  
The soldiers leapt back as fire curved around them, coalescing in an angry crescendo on the man slaying them. More followed, before they raised up, and slammed down, imploding.  
The sudden burst of light forced all to shield their eyes. As she glanced towards the ashes, she gulped. The entire battalion stepped back, cursing every deity to have existed.  
His hand flexed, almost a silent acceptance of a challenge in the metal fist closing. From his shadow, several tendrils rose swaying, as inky as their master. For the first time, the girl met another skilled in magic. With gently opening of his hand, the Black Knight released his hell hounds.

The silence was palpable. The only one immune to the dread was the foolish girl who Feron used as a toy.  
The fear had the court recalling the myths they had heard.  
"It's said he isn't even man, just a possessed suit of armor."  
Another voice in the darkness added, "I heard he doesn't speak for he traded his voice in a deal with the devilish."  
Quietly, as if he feared noise would bring ruin, one of the advisers asked, "Do you think the half of your battalion was enough?"  
As armored as the fool who was coming for his life, the lord chuckled, a horrible noise. "Those were the finest, and bloodiest soldiers this side of the Gorlda mountains. This "Dark Warrior" is doubtably as fierce as rumor has it. He's probably a head being paraded on its way back to me."  
The universe has a sick sense of humor. The large oak doors burst open, the ornate guardsman flung into the center of the room. A glance proved him dead, several limbs violently removed. The man responsible stood in the doorway, his silhouette hanging. The ground at his feet was decorated in gore, the guards' remains a perverse decoration.  
Lord Feron flinched on the inside. No man, he thought to himself, was this skilled at spilling blood, natural or not. On the outside, his face held an unsettling grin.  
"Oh," he began, "what vile act have you come to punish me for? Is my rule so tyrannical you've made it a personal vendetta to-"  
The words refused to leave his throat as the silhouette moved forward, shield and sword discarded. The implements of death hit the stone floor with ringing, before settling to a silence. The gauntlet imbued with a shadowy aura fitting of the namesake locked onto his throat, a single hand lifting him in air. The remaining soldiers sprung from hiding, but as he peered into the eyes, the end was as clear as the glass windows.  
The fist sunk in, slowing at his ribs, before reinvigorating and shooting through. Everyone in the room stopped as their lord spit up blood. Hitting with a wet splat, the crimson decorated the heart's location on the breastplate in crimson.  
Struggling to hold on his tattered claim on life, Feron mumbled out, "You're a monster." Withdrawing his hand from the nobleman, the knight turned. Crumpling to the ground, Feron Erilo, Dementer of the Ytrian Valley, passed on to the nothing.  
The ambushers froze. This man had execute Feron bare handed. Their lord had earned his place by bloodshed, and he had been a deadly fighter in his own right. For him to be vanquished so easily showed this man was not one to be trifled with. Many dropped their arms, hoping for mercy.  
Summoning a slowly gyrating magic circle, the knight stood tall. The shadows burst out, encompassing the vile room. They encircled the warrior, seemly lovingly. The helm bent downwards, seeming to stare at his clenched fist. With a moment of silence and contemplation, for the second time that day, he opened his hand.


End file.
